that, a chignon?
“Well, alright then, but if you need help please don’t hesitate.”
I flick my chin in a nod. “Will do.”
As I work my way through the stacks, I find my mind wandering. Back in California, I would have never been caught dead in a library unless it was forced. Like when we had study hall and the odd time I had to check out books for homework. But it was always painful. The sheer thought of spending time in one, studying, was enough to make me cringe. Bryce was even more anti-library than I was. I don’t think he ever passed through the doors of the school library. Instead, he’d talk someone else into getting his books for him. Darcy and Rachel treated the room, and the people who went in, as if it were a disease, like leprosy. They always joked about it. To them learning was secondary, at least, to causing trouble and being popular. High school was a big joke. One that could be conquered by shedding tears over a bad grade, faking a doctor’s note, or paying the diseased geeks—who spent hours in the library, just for fun—for test answers.
I was lucky to be born with enough smarts that school came rather easily. Sure, I had to crack a book here and there, but I didn’t have to try too hard. And I sure didn’t have to cry to the teachers, get my dad to write notes, retake tests, or cheat.
The expanse of this library is laid out over two floors. Shelves upon shelves of thick books, holding so much information, and I hope, answers. I trail my fingers against the leather bindings of books in the poetry section. Names like Dante, Eliot, Frost, Shakespeare, Poe and Yeats jump out at me. A guilty pleasure I’m ashamed, almost, to admit. There’s just something about poetry that catches my attention. Maybe it’s how a few stanzas can turn an entire moment around, giving you something intense to think about.
I pluck Whitman from the shelf. It’s heavy, thick, the hard cover worn down, the binding creased and weathered. I crack it open to a random page. The paper is delicate and soft beneath my fingertips. I bring the book closer to my nose, inhaling the scent of its archaic prose. It’s comforting, and my eyes scan the words and read the lines.
After a few minutes, I close the book, slip it back onto the shelf and walk away. Poetry has its strong points, soothing words, and eloquent language. It’s easy to get lost in it. But I must not forget why I’m here. The periodical section hopefully holds the answers.
That doesn’t stop me from reading the titles of the books I pass by, weaving in and out of the countless shelves. Like swinging on the swing or washing away my troubles in the shower, with each turn further and further into the tangle of shelves, my mind eases, clears.
I’m so lost in my own head that when I turn another corner I collide with something.
I leap back a step, rubbing my head.
“Sorry?”
When the stars dissipate and my eyes readjust to their surroundings, I notice a tall boy standing before me. He’s gangly. The tip of his brown hair covered head nearly reaches the highest shelf of books.
“No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going,” I say as a scorching blush spreads over my cheeks.
“Well in that case, I’m not sorry.” He chuckles. “But apology accepted.” He rubs his right hand against his blue jeans and then extends it. “I’m Dawsyn.”
He has to be about my age. His tone, his slightly baggy jeans and graphic T-shirt fit in with what kids at my old school wore. I reach out. “I’m Alex,” I say, looking down at our now clasped hands. His skin is warm, and his grip is firm as he gives a tight squeeze before pulling back. Trying not to be obvious, I brush my own hand against my jeans. Sweaty germs are the worst kind.
“Nice to meet you,” he says. He grabs a book from a small metal cart to his left, scans the binding, and then he places it on the shelf. “Can I help you find anything?”
I had turned down help from the
“Well, alright then, but if you need help please don’t hesitate.”
I flick my chin in a nod. “Will do.”
As I work my way through the stacks, I find my mind wandering. Back in California, I would have never been caught dead in a library unless it was forced. Like when we had study hall and the odd time I had to check out books for homework. But it was always painful. The sheer thought of spending time in one, studying, was enough to make me cringe. Bryce was even more anti-library than I was. I don’t think he ever passed through the doors of the school library. Instead, he’d talk someone else into getting his books for him. Darcy and Rachel treated the room, and the people who went in, as if it were a disease, like leprosy. They always joked about it. To them learning was secondary, at least, to causing trouble and being popular. High school was a big joke. One that could be conquered by shedding tears over a bad grade, faking a doctor’s note, or paying the diseased geeks—who spent hours in the library, just for fun—for test answers.
I was lucky to be born with enough smarts that school came rather easily. Sure, I had to crack a book here and there, but I didn’t have to try too hard. And I sure didn’t have to cry to the teachers, get my dad to write notes, retake tests, or cheat.
The expanse of this library is laid out over two floors. Shelves upon shelves of thick books, holding so much information, and I hope, answers. I trail my fingers against the leather bindings of books in the poetry section. Names like Dante, Eliot, Frost, Shakespeare, Poe and Yeats jump out at me. A guilty pleasure I’m ashamed, almost, to admit. There’s just something about poetry that catches my attention. Maybe it’s how a few stanzas can turn an entire moment around, giving you something intense to think about.
I pluck Whitman from the shelf. It’s heavy, thick, the hard cover worn down, the binding creased and weathered. I crack it open to a random page. The paper is delicate and soft beneath my fingertips. I bring the book closer to my nose, inhaling the scent of its archaic prose. It’s comforting, and my eyes scan the words and read the lines.
After a few minutes, I close the book, slip it back onto the shelf and walk away. Poetry has its strong points, soothing words, and eloquent language. It’s easy to get lost in it. But I must not forget why I’m here. The periodical section hopefully holds the answers.
That doesn’t stop me from reading the titles of the books I pass by, weaving in and out of the countless shelves. Like swinging on the swing or washing away my troubles in the shower, with each turn further and further into the tangle of shelves, my mind eases, clears.
I’m so lost in my own head that when I turn another corner I collide with something.
I leap back a step, rubbing my head.
“Sorry?”
When the stars dissipate and my eyes readjust to their surroundings, I notice a tall boy standing before me. He’s gangly. The tip of his brown hair covered head nearly reaches the highest shelf of books.
“No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going,” I say as a scorching blush spreads over my cheeks.
“Well in that case, I’m not sorry.” He chuckles. “But apology accepted.” He rubs his right hand against his blue jeans and then extends it. “I’m Dawsyn.”
He has to be about my age. His tone, his slightly baggy jeans and graphic T-shirt fit in with what kids at my old school wore. I reach out. “I’m Alex,” I say, looking down at our now clasped hands. His skin is warm, and his grip is firm as he gives a tight squeeze before pulling back. Trying not to be obvious, I brush my own hand against my jeans. Sweaty germs are the worst kind.
“Nice to meet you,” he says. He grabs a book from a small metal cart to his left, scans the binding, and then he places it on the shelf. “Can I help you find anything?”
I had turned down help from the
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